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Shortly before the holidays, I experienced an remarkable situation. I think it was beneficial for me. This took place at a gathering of some old friends, who happen to be dental professionals, but that’s not pertinent. The present party were all blokes, which is key.

An Unfamiliar Situation

The location was a bar and eatery doing a brisk business. A wasted afternoon was shared by the group. Good fare, good drink and unexpectedly entertaining tales about teeth. Inevitably, the time dawned for visits to the men's room. Those who departed, I vaguely observed, seemed to be gone a significant period. I didn’t dwell on the reason this might have been, but when it was me next, everything was revealed.

Rounding the corner, and what should I find but a lengthy line for the gentlemen’s toilet. An empty space for the ladies' room, but a substantial line for the men's. What strange new world was this? This was not a reality any of us in this gathering knew.

An Experience of the Norm

To be perfectly clear, I do not seek or anticipate sympathy from any lady here. I am acutely cognizant that, for ladies, having to queue to use a restroom is standard practice. On countless occasions have I observed women queuing in a line while men in the same establishment have to do no such thing?

Apart from the annoyance of needing to wait to use a toilet, there’s a hint of humiliation about standing there, waiting for something that men usually don’t have to endure. It was decidedly sobering to get a taste of it myself, seeing the opposite gender glide through the entrance while I was obliged to wait patiently in queue with my companions, looking distractedly at whatever we had in our jackets and checking our phones.

The Art of Lavatory Queue Banter

There’s a entire form of small talk here – lavatory line banter – of which men have scant familiarity. Ladies, I presume, have become adept to be quite proficient at it, sharing pleasantries and an engaging insight or two.

Regarding this I’ve consulted some women of my circle. The consensus is that intra-queue interaction is limited to the rare exasperated look and the phrase: “Fuck this, I’m going to use the male.” A colleague told me it’s merely at the washbasins later that conversation tends to start up.

Had I been a lady, I’d refrain from on either niceties or reticence. If I was obliged, repeatedly, to queue in a shared procession merely for the privilege to use the toilet, I’d vent my spleen like nobody’s business at the utter inequity of it. A valuable metric for any modern community would be balanced access in wee lining-up periods. I’m seeking out studies on this.

Male Interaction in the Line

Returning to my wait, I attempted to get some friendly chat started about this new circumstance of ours. I sighed a bit, showed exasperation and remarked something along the lines of: “So, this is an unpleasant variation, doesn’t it lads?”

One person chuckled, another seemed nonplussed, a third looked sheepish. Another gave a dismissive wave as if this was one more manifestation of modern woes, political correctness etc. For the most part, stillness reigned. An individual came out, adjusting his clothing. The queue shuffled up a position. A couple more men took a place at the end of it. I let out a breath.

A Knowing Exchange

A lady glided out of the neighbouring restroom, all fragrant and unhurried. It was all right for some. I beamed apologetically at her, trying to convey recognition of this topsy-turvy situation. She remarked: “Don't turn to me for solidarity, you blighter. Come back when you’ve done this on a regular basis and at that point I may give you the time of day.”

Actually, she never spoke that. She said nothing. But I am convinced that’s what she was implying. And I honestly would not censure her.